lest we forget
by comptine
Summary: Arthur sat at his brother's bedside, reading the poem that told of poppies and truth he had yet to understand.


_May 4th, 1915_

Arthur breathed in deeply, setting his gun down and running fingers through his hair, the sweat and grime keeping it slicked back. The scent of gunpowder still hung fresh in air, but the stench of death prevailed. Muttering a few words to his commander, he began to pick his way through the wasteland that France's lavish countryside had become.

Almost unconsciously, he began checking bodies as he walked. It was a numbing task; each face -one of his own people- flashing in his mind before washing as another face took its place. He made sure to say a small prayer over the body before moving on.

The battle had lasted longer than expected, but in the end they had triumphed over Germany's army and France once again flying red, white and blue. Francis himself was back at the medical tent, recovering from the exhaustion that had plagued him since they had entered the final battle. While he would've never said it aloud, he had been worried about the Frenchman and was glad he had survived the battle relatively unscathed.

His wanderings led him to a cliff. The sound of the ocean storming against the rocky crags soothed him. Mist gently fell against his face and coupled with the sweet smell of the sea reminding him of simpler times, times when it was only himself and the horizon, daring him to chase it. Sighing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. What he wouldn't give for the open waters instead of this stained and broken earth.

Something cold and hard splashed onto the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. His eyes opened and he tilted his head back, watching the clouds that had been threatening all day finally rain down on the world. He raised a hand over his eyes, glancing around, trying to spot his camp.

A hunched figure hiding under a small tent caught his eye and he hurried towards it, his boots slapping loudly in the muddy puddles. The man was impossible to distinguish through the sheets of heavy rain and only when he stepped under the cover of the canvas did he recognize him.

"Matthew." England said, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes. "What are you doing out here?"

His brother jumped slightly, turning around. Blood dripped from his lip and a shallow cut along his cheek, but aside from that he looked completely well, save for the look of worry on his face. "A-Arthur." The voice was shaky, but not with the usual timorousness, but with something else. Like he couldn't quite find words to express what was going through his mind. "I was just… I needed to get away from battle… my commander let me set up a tent out here."

"And I'm right grateful for it," Arthur said, shivering slightly as the cold fabric of his uniform clung to his skin, "You wouldn't happen to have a-"

Canada reached into a pouch hanging from his belt, pulling out a small flask. Arthur took it with a small mumble of thanks and downed the liquor, coughing as the heat seared down his throat and to the rest of his body, warming his very bones. He passed the flask back, watching the younger nation also take a long swig of the drink. "Aren't you a little young?" Arthur asked.

"It's a bad habit I picked up from my father," Canada said with the ghost of a smile. Suddenly, Matthew clutched his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut, "Ouch…" He muttered, shaking his head.

"What's wrong?" England said, gently touching his brother's shoulder, his tone that of an overly concerned parent, "Matthew?"

Still holding his head, Matthew's blue eyes looked at Arthur and he offered a sort of pained grimace. "I'm fine. Just a little headache, the battle… wasn't the best for my men." He finished quietly.

Before England could press him further, the sound of approaching footsteps announced another visitor. The soldier was Canadian and sopping wet, making Arthur guess that he had just run here from the main camp. He huffed for a moment, clutching his knees before straightening and saluting them both. The nations returned the gesture and Matthew addressed his soldier, "Lieutenant, is there something wrong? Is everything alright back at camp?"

"Everything is fine, Colonel Williams." The boy reached up with a hand and began rubbing his arm, almost unconsciously; "B-but I wondering if I c-could have a word in priv-vate. I have s-something I'd like to show you." He said through chattering teeth.

Matthew looked at his brother, who nodded, wandering to the edge of the tent, staring out into the heavy rain. Casually, he glanced over his shoulder, watching the soldier pass a small white note to Canada, who unfolded it and began to read. The young man was still talking as the nation read, his arm motions slightly nervous. When finished, Matthew looked up from the paper, folded it back into a small square and saluted the soldier. Flustered, the young man seemed taken off-guard by the gesture and awkwardly returned it before hurrying off.

"Are you alright?" England asked, frowning, "You look a little pale…"

His brother's face was oddly strained. "I'm fine." He said, his hand curling into a fist around the paper, "Just…" His voice faltered and Arthur barely caight him as he fell forward, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

"Matthew!" Arthur lowered him to the ground, touching his cheek, "Matthew can you hear me!?" There was no response, and when England shook him, the blond's head merely lolled from side-to-side. "Oh God… Medic!" Arthur screamed at the top of his lungs, staring around the empty grey landscape, praying for someone to hear him, "Stay with me Matt. Don't leave me with that idiot brother of yours. Don't… don't leave me."

* * *

Matthew awoke to find himself in a hospital room, the sheets tucked close around his body while outside, rain splattered half-heartedly against his small window. Fumbling on the side table for his glasses, he slipped them on just as the door to his room opened. An old matron walked in, pulling a cart behind her.

"Oh good," She said, spotting her patient's open eyes, "You're awake. I was beginning to worry about you, deary." Matthew nodded, his throat feeling too dry to form any words. The nurse began to putter around his bed, fixing his sheet and taking a small tray off her cart and placing it on his lap. Porridge and a small, red apple sat before him as even though the meal seemed meagre, Canada's stomach growled. He reached out a slightly trembling hand and picked up the spoon, shovelling the food into his mouth.

The matron smiled, the number of her wrinkles increasing. "Getting a private room all to yourself," She said, checking his charts, "You must be a very important person, dear. We have to move five men out of here! They weren't very happy but the gentleman who brought you insisted that you needed to be alone."

The lump of porridge suddenly felt heavy in Canada's throat. It took him a moment to force the food down. "You could say that." He coughed, placing his spoon back and pushing the bowl away from him, his appetite suddenly gone.

She apparently didn't catch the guilty note in her patient's voice. "Oh! I've completely forgotten in all my blabbering. The man who brought you in wants to see you." She said, "Are you feeling well enough to see him?"

Canada nodded and the old woman took his tray and placed it back on her small cart. "He'll be right in, just call if you need anything deary." She left, cart and all, making sure to leave the door open. He watched the outside window until there was a creak from the doorway.

"Can I come in?" Arthur was out of his uniform, dressed in a green sweater. Matthew nodded, shifting nervously in his bed. A bandage was wrapped around England's hand and he dragged a chair to the bedside, seating himself. "H-how are you feeling? Better, I hope?"

Still at a loss for words, Matthew just nodded. "That's good, you had me worried about you," said Arthur, staring directly at his brother's knees, "Alfred was here early. I had to practically drag him out of here so that he could get a goodnight's sleep." England laughed, but it sounded slightly empty and when Matthew didn't join him, it soon died.

"He'll be glad you're okay." Arthur continued. "He was worried." When his brother still said nothing, England got to his feet, wanting to leave before the situation's awkwardness drove him mad.

"How long have I been out?" Canada said. His eyes were dark and his fingers were curled around each other tightly in his lap.

Sitting down before he answered, Arthur tried to keep his brother's gaze. "Just a few days. You were exhausted, I'm not surprised."

"Exhausted…" Matthew sighed, "Right."

The nations fell quiet, Canada staring out of his window and Arthur staring at nothing in particular. He turned his head slightly and noticed the small white note on Matthew's bedside table. "Isn't that the note the soldier gave you?"

"Yes. It was." Arthur reached out and, apparently missing his brother's small whisper of 'Arthur don't-' and picked up the note. Carefully, he unfolded it, and looked at Matthew. "Please Arthur," Canada said, his tone a little more desperate, "It's nothing, just give it back."

A bushy eyebrow quirked and the green eyes fell to the page. "If it's nothing, then it shouldn't matter." He said and began to read.

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow__  
Between the crosses, row on row,__  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
__The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the dead. Short days ago__  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,__  
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:__  
To you from failing hands we throw__  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
__If ye break faith with us who die__  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields._

Arthur stared at the paper. The words were slightly smeared. Whether from rain, tears or a heavy combination of both, he couldn't tell. He cleared his throat, blinking quickly. "M-Matthew…" His voice caught and he wasn't sure if he could stare his brother in the eye, "This is…"

"Terrible." Canada said quietly, snatching the note away from his brother and cradling against his chest, "I know. A soldier of mine wrote it after his friend's funeral… I-I got it in the end."

Arthur finally looked up; Matthew was staring right at him. "It's anything but terrible," He said, "You have to show this to people."

"No I don't," His hand tightened around the paper, "I don't have to show anyone. No one needs to see this."

For a moment, England's hand left his lap, as if he was going to touch his brother, but he hesitated and placed it back on his leg. "Matthew… I-I, it's beautiful and it's the truth. You have to let people see it, they have to understand w-what it's like."

"I don't have to do anything you tell me," the Canadian bit back, "My people don't need to know. I can still… I can still keep them safe." There was such defiance in his voice, that for a moment, England wanted nothing more than to strike the young nation, to tell him to obey. But just as soon as the urge had come it passed, leaving behind a bitter taste in his mouth.

England felt his lips twitch and he covered his face with his hand, his breathing stuttered. "I have to go." He stood up, letting his hand fall so that Matthew could see his broken smile. "Feel better Matthew." He delicately grabbed Matthew's face and kissed his forehead.

For an hour, Canada stared at the closed door, the note heavy on his chest, until sleep overcame him. His dreams were a muddled mess of his people, some smiling and happy, others lying on the battlefield, crying out for someone, anyone. Of lands large and free, quickly turned cold and barren from war. And of red, from his flag, the blood of his fallen and the poppies that sit between the crosses.

* * *

**Author's Note**

_In Flanders Field_ is a very famous Canadian war-poem written during World War I by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae who wrote it after his close friend, Alexis Helmer, died. He preceded over the funeral as the captain was missing and buried him near McCrae's dressing station. Poppies were growing in a nearby cemetery and during his twenty minutes of rest, McCrae from the fifteen lines in his notebook. Originally, he had tossed the poem, but another soldier had rescued it, and it was published by an English magazine _Punch_ in December of the year 1915.

I also found out recently that poppies are a Canadian form of remembrance and don't really mean much else to other nations (save for Britain and France I think, but don't quote me) That makes me wonder; we wear a poppy on our breast on Remembrance Day, what do you do on Memorial Day/Remembrance Day/whatever you celebrate?

"In Flanders Fields" (c) John McCrae

and thanks to ThumperMiggles for beta-ing


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